Can't Just Stop: An Investigation of Compulsions - Hardcover

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Sharon Begley is the senior science writer at STAT, the life sciences publication of The Boston Globe. She previously worked at Reuters, Newsweek, The Daily Beast, and The Wall Street Journal. She is the author of Can’t Just Stop; The Emotional Life of Your Brain (with Richard J. Davidson); Train Your Mind, Change Your Brain; and The Mind and the Brain (with Jeffrey Schwartz). She has received numerous awards for communicating science to the public.

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Can’t Just Stop

CHAPTER ONE

What Is a Compulsion?

A GENERATION OR SO AGO, it became trendy to describe all sorts of excessive behaviors as addictions, meaning an intense appetite for an activity, as in “I’m addicted to shopping” . . . or to weaving, yoga, jogging, work, meditating, making money (as a 1980 book called Wealth Addiction argued) or even to playing Rubik’s Cube (a 1981 story in the New York Times deemed it “an addictive invention”). Once neurobiologists discovered that the same brain circuitry underlying addictions to nicotine, opiates, and other substances is also involved in, for instance, a chocoholic’s craving for Teuscher truffles, pop sociologists were off to the races. Suddenly, we were all addicted to email and working and Angry Birds playing and Facebook posting and . . . well, everything that some people do in excess became an addiction. The only significant scientific barrier to this trend—psychiatry did not recognize any behavior as addictive in the formal sense of the term—fell in 2013. That spring, the American Psychiatric Association published the latest edition of its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, widely regarded as the bible of the field, and for the first time it recognized a behavioral addiction: gambling.

Gambling made the cut because it met the three criteria that, for decades, have been the defining characteristics of an addiction. First, the behavior (or substance) is intensely pleasurable, at least initially, and sinks its claws into soon-to-be addicts the first time they experience it. Second, engaging in the addictive behavior produces tolerance, in which an addict needs more and more of something to derive the same hedonic hit. And, finally, ceasing to engage in the addictive behavior triggers agonizing withdrawal symptoms on a par with those that torture the addict who is trying to kick a heroin habit.

By these criteria, “addictions” to the electronic crack of the twenty-first century don’t look like addictions, and they don’t feel like it either, most crucially because they lack the defining hedonic quality. For me, at least, compulsively checking for emails feels more like what people with obsessive-compulsive disorder experience right before the urge to wash their hands or straighten a picture or step on the magical fourth sidewalk crack (because if they don’t their mother will die). It feels like something you have to do, not something you want to do; something that alleviates anxiety (Is an elusive source finally getting back to me, but about to try a competitor unless I reply in the next five seconds?), rarely something that brings pleasure.

They are compulsions, not addictions.

What’s the difference? The two terms are often used interchangeably in casual conversation (“compulsive shopping” vs. a “shopping addiction”) with a mention of “impulsive” often thrown in for good measure. But since this is a book about compulsions and not addictions, let me explain how experts understand the differences.

To wit: surprisingly, alarmingly, disappointingly, exasperatingly poorly.

A Taxonomic Odyssey

Without ratting out people who were kind enough to sit still for my persistent questioning, I’ll simply note that they did not fill me with confidence about the solidity of the scientific foundation underpinning the understanding of compulsive behaviors. “Well, a behavioral addiction is governed by things like neurons and hormones,” one tentatively began. “But a compulsive behavior is psychological, but is governed by physical mechanisms.” Huh? The muddle was captured nicely, if inadvertently, by a 2008 paper in which the authors invent something they name “impulsive-compulsive sexual behavior” and define it as “one type of addictive behavior.” Trifecta: a behavior that’s impulsive, compulsive, and addictive.

The lines dividing a compulsive behavior from an addictive one from an impulsive one seem to shift like tastes in fashion, and the confusion between and among them was practically codified by the many iterations of the American Psychiatric Association and its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. Over the decades, the editions of the mega-selling DSM have rotated addiction, compulsion, and impulse through the definitions of syndromes, including eating disorders and anxiety disorders, as if the three were interchangeable. The DSM hasn’t even managed to draw clear boundaries around OCD, which you’d think would be firmly ensconced as a compulsive disorder by virtue of its name, if nothing else. But no: early editions of the DSM described obsessive-compulsive disorder as marked by recurrent and persistent impulses to do this or that. When the APA’s experts began working on what would become the DSM-5, their working names for pathological Internet use and pathological shopping were “C-I Internet usage” and “C-I shopping”—where the C stood for compulsive and the I for impulsive. The idea was that the excessive behaviors have features of both: impulsivity is the proximate cause, but a compulsive drive makes the behavior persist.

To get a sense of how muddled the taxonomy was, consider trichotillomania, which afflicted Amy, whom you met in the Introduction. In 1987 it entered that year’s DSM (edition III-R) as an impulse-control disorder, along with kleptomania, pyromania, and intermittent explosive disorder, among others. That reflected the common meaning of impulsivity as “rapid, unplanned behavior with little foresight of or regard for the negative consequences,” as Yale University psychiatrist Marc Potenza defined it one day when I visited his office in downtown New Haven, Connecticut. But the 1994 edition, DSM-IV, added two criteria for diagnosing trichotillomania: “an increasing sense of tension immediately before pulling out the hair or when attempting to resist the behavior,” and “pleasure, gratification, or relief when pulling out the hair.” Both of these are exactly what defines a compulsion. Yet trichotillomania sat among the impulse-control disorders until 2013, when the DSM-5 (it switched that year from Roman numerals to Arabic) plucked it out of the impulse-control disorders and stuck it at the end of the chapter on OCD as a “related disorder.” Oh, and the DSM-5 eliminated the criteria that hair pulling be preceded by tension and lead to relief—and yet there it sits, in the OCD chapter, a chapter for a disorder whose defining characteristic is the anxiety that spurs an action that relieves said anxiety.

Tric’s wanderings in the psychiatric wilderness are nothing compared to those of pathological gambling. The 1994 DSM had put compulsive gambling (my emphasis) in a grab-bag category called “impulse-control disorders not elsewhere classified,” along with kleptomania, pyromania, and others. Again, that reflected the thinking that someone might impulsively decide to play the ponies and then, through some poorly understood mechanism, segue into doing so compulsively. In 2013, gambling also pulled off the trifecta: having previously been called compulsive and classified as impulsive, it became the first behavioral disorder to be formally categorized as an addiction.

At least the new classification made sense, in that it hewed to the traditional three-part understanding of addiction (initial hedonic hit leading to intense desire for the substance or, now, the...